


Not Entirely Related to the Struggle for Freedom

by womenseemwicked



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom, Rimming, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womenseemwicked/pseuds/womenseemwicked
Summary: It's chapter 2 of The Witcher. Geralt has just sided with Yaevinn's Scoia'tael against The Flaming Rose for a fight in the swamps.Yaevinn wants to thank the witcher for his help. Properly.





	Not Entirely Related to the Struggle for Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I spelled Vizima the Polish way ‘cause I like it better. I threw Roach in for a second despite the fact Geralt didn't have a horse in the first game, ‘cause horses are useful plot devices or something.  
> I made up some pretty damn thoroughly researched Elder Speech dirty talk, so there's translations of that in the endnotes. Feel free to use them wherever, just maybe credit me 'cause if anybody comes lookin I really wanna talk Elder Speech with people. This is a very limited use skill I've taught myself and I'm lonely.  
> Other than that this is all factually accurate. Fight me.

As he was about to leave the Scoia’tael camp, Geralt looked down to see a hand gripping Roach’s bridle. He glanced at Yaevinn questioningly.   
  
“You can’t go back to Wyzima,” the elf said simply. “Those fanatics will burn you alive after the help you gave us today.”   
  
“I wasn’t planning to. At least not for a couple days. But there’s a cave not far from here, recently cleared of the wolf pack that had been calling it home. I’ve slept in less comfortable places.”   
  
“I’m sure you have, Gwynbleidd, but that doesn’t mean you’re to sleep there tonight.”   
  
“Hm?”   
  
“Stay here with us. We’ve a few beds to spare now thanks to the honorable Flaming Rose, as well as food and good company.” The elf removed his hand from Roach’s halter, though his gaze stayed direct, holding Geralt in place just as effectively as his hand had. “Or you could share with me if that suits you…”   
  
The witcher straightened in his saddle and smiled somehow with only his eyes.   
  
“Won’t your unit mind a d’hoine in their midst?”   
  
Yaevinn spat.   
  
“You’re no more d’hoine than I am. But if one of them should complain that a witcher sleeps among us, let them say it to my swords.”   
  
“And what if the witcher doesn’t sleep, but rustles bushes and causes their commander to cry out through the night?”   
  
Yaevinn’s heart beat only slightly faster at that, but Geralt picked it up nonetheless, and had to work to suppress a smile.   
  
“They shall live with it, or move. And now I’ll not take no for an answer so do dismount and give my weary neck a rest, would you Wolf?”   
  
“Verily.” Geralt said, once again smiling with his eyes as he swung himself out of Roach’s saddle. His mount whinnied and stamped her feet, annoyed at having been saddled for nothing, then stepped away to nibble at a patch of grass when Geralt removed her bridle.   
  
Yaevinn called over one of his elves to see to Geralt’s horse, and immediately pulled the witcher aside. He led him to a small tent on the edge of the camp, far from where the rest of the Scoia’tael were gathered after the day’s fight. 

His grip was gentle but firm, his skin pleasantly warm. The elf walked with purpose and didn’t even react when a couple of young female elves shared a glance and a cheeky word at his expense.   
  
Yet as he opened the flap, Yaevinn paused and turned to face the witcher, a question in his searching eyes and on his frowning lips. One last vestige of uncertainty that he’d made his motives unclear, or that the witcher wanted perhaps to wait until nightfall, as dh’oine were so often inclined.   
  
The witcher smirked and stepped closer, and Yaevinn’s gaze dropped from his catlike eyes to his half-parted lips, but Geralt simply slid a strong hand around the elf’s thin waist and reached past him to pull the tent flap properly open before pushing them both inside.   
  
Yaevinn grabbed the witcher’s shoulder to steady himself, finding even as he did so that with one of Geralt’s hands holding him up he had nothing to fear. The elf let out a slightly breathless laugh at his own expense and relaxed only slightly, still pressing himself into the witcher’s chest. Golden eyes fixed on deep hazel, testing, searching, trusting, then someone bridged the gap and they were locked in a kiss.   
  
It was all dry lips and a battle of wills at first, with neither giving ground under almost bruising pressure, but as Yaevinn wound slow, exploring fingers through the witcher’s frost white hair, Geralt grew gentler and submitted just slightly to the elf’s thin lips before pulling away from the kiss. 

He moved his now teasingly soft lips down the elf’s jaw and to his neck and Yaevinn tried not to sigh, busying himself by reaching round carefully to unhook his sword belts. He tossed the weapons away with little care, before turning his attention to Geralt’s.   
  
“Careful. Those are more expensive than all the weapons you’ve touched in your life,” the witcher warned, his breath hot on Yaevinn’s ear, his voice calmer than the words he spoke.   
  
“You must truly trust me then,” the elf teased as he finished with the witcher’s hooks and buckles. “What’s to stop me from taking them and selling them for gold the moment you fall asleep, Wolf?” He set the steel and silver swords aside with exaggerated care.   
  
Without a word Geralt swept Yaevinn closer to his chest and slowly leaned them both down onto the fresh rushes piled with blankets that served as Yaevinn’s bed. His firm hand on the elf’s back was all that kept him from falling too fast, but the witcher didn’t strain under the uneven distribution of weight even slightly. 

It was half warning and half courting, but in a moment it was clear what part of Geralt’s intention succeeded most. Though he avoided a shiver or a groan, the quickening of the elf’s pulse at this was even more clearly audible to the witcher’s senses now than before. Geralt smirked and listened to the quick sounds of Yaevinn’s heart with interest.   
  
“Yes to displays of strength then,” he muttered almost to himself, as he slipped his hand out from under the elf.   
  
Yaevinn, now lying on the rushes below him, raised a willowy brow as though completely unaware of that the witcher was talking about, but Geralt simply knelt further down and pressed his lips to the nearly frantic pulse point in his neck. Yaevinn shivered, and when the witcher deepened the kiss - moving his talented mouth across the expanse of the elf’s half-exposed neck, he groaned deep in his throat.   
  
Geralt did this with an almost animal hunger, but not at the expense of the quick movements his fingers were making to loose the elf’s clothing. Only when he’d unfastened everything that could be unfastened did he let Yaevinn lift himself slightly to slip out of his well-worn, thick leather tunic.   
  
In the soft light that filtered through the cloth walls of the tent, Yaevinn looked every bit a warrior of the Aen Seidhe. Lean muscle ornamented only sparsely with dark hair that stood out against the golden skin in defiant beauty, marked with scars that’d faded much lighter than the witcher’s - better taken care of. He could be a statue were he not so very alive, thrumming with decades of it.

Having stripped down to trousers and boots, the elf relaxed back onto the bed and glanced up at Geralt to see the witcher’s pupils blown so wide that they looked almost human. The elf nearly smiled.   
  
“Has it been so long since you’ve been with a man, Gwynbleidd?” he said with a simper. Geralt reluctantly moved his eyes back up to the elf’s face.   


“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’d have to be blind as well as amnesiac not to be captivated by you.”    
  
Yaevinn laughed and Geralt was surprised to see a dimple appear, just briefly, on his right cheek.   
  
“Then perhaps,” the elf said, weaving an arm about the curve of the witcher’s tapered waist. “ _ I _ should take the reins for a while, Wolf.” 

In a swift movement the elf turned the distracted witcher on his back, hard. Geralt’s breath took a moment to come back and his head took a moment to clear. 

“And I see the witcher too enjoys a show of strength,” the elf observed, brushing the long fingers of one hand along the bulge in Geralt’s trousers with a prideful smile as it twitched unmistakably. The witcher’s groan was needier than he expected.   
  
Yaevinn aligned his body along the strong curves of the witcher’s and slotted their lips together for a drawn out kiss. His tongue danced across Geralt’s lips and his dark hair fell over both their faces in sleek curtains. The witcher wound his strong hands about the elf’s backside, caressing and holding him close, and Yaevinn ground their hips together once in a slow, deliberate movement. Geralt groaned again, and the elf bit his bottom lip not quite gently.   
  
At that Geralt slipped a leg over and flipped them back so that he was once more straddling the elf, careful to make the movement slow enough that he wouldn’t do any lasting damage. Even so, Yaevinn looked slightly dazed as the witcher sat up over him and began to remove his armor. He kept his eyes focused on the elf, watching every micro expression and hitching in his breath as Geralt slowly stripped for him.   
  
He wasn’t disappointed. Yaevinn bit his lip to resist a gasp - half horrified and half deeply turned on - at the first glimpse of just the first of the witcher’s deep and puckered scars. And soon as the layers of leather and thick cotton were clear, leaving nothing but the wolf medallion on the witcher’s deathly pale chest, the elf’s fingers moved up irresistibly to trace over the hills and valleys of taut muscle and the rough terrain of near a century’s worth of ill-healed scars. 

The witcher watched for a long moment, enjoying the elf’s soft touches, but finally he laid back down on top of him and took Yaevinn’s lips in a slow, searing kiss. As much as he appreciated the attention, there were more pressing things on the witcher’s mind than the stroking of his ego or the inevitable questions about how each scar had been acquired. The elf flinched as Geralt’s wolf medallion pressed against his chest, the spikes of it leaving small but noticeable marks in his skin. The witcher pulled back quickly.

“You don’t ever take it off, do you?” Yaevinn asked, taking the medallion carefully in his hand to get a better look.

“Not if I can help it,” the witcher replied, watching the elf handle the warm metal between careful fingers. 

“So I’ll have to let it knock out all my teeth if I want you to fuck me like I do?”

Geralt shivered and smiled. “That won’t be necessary.”

He took the sharp metal back from the elf’s hand and twisted it round on its chain until it was hanging down his back, and Yaevinn kissed him slow and deep and pulled him down closer with a hand on his face and the small of his back, and his legs wrapped tightly round the witcher’s. The unmistakable shape of the elf’s arousal rubbed against the witcher’s inner thigh and he hummed and pressed into the sensation, entwining his fingers in Yaevinn’s long hair and giving it a tug even as he played with it softly. The elf let his eyes fall shut for a moment and pressed into the witcher’s rough fingers.   
  
Geralt continued to play idly with the elf’s long hair as he moved his mouth down to kiss and suck and lick at Yaevinn’s neck, encouraged by the elf’s low moans until marks nearly formed. Yaevinn spoke haltingly as tangible evidence of the witcher’s arousal pressed insistently down against his own.

“Should we do this again, Gwynbleidd, I promise that you may take as long as you... mmh... as you wish. Right now, however, I simply… hhm… I need…” Yaevinn shuddered as the witcher ground their hips together slowly, steadily, and slipped a hand down between them to loosen the strings on his trousers. “Aen’drean me, vatt’ghern. Veloë,” the elf gasped, a rasp and a tremble already entering his voice despite his best efforts.   
  
The witcher hummed low in his throat. “However beautiful it sounds, you know I don’t remember any of the Elder Speech,” he said, his breath hot against the elf’s ear between kisses.   
  
“I said fuck into me, witcher,” Yaevinn growled, lifting his hips. “With all haste.”   
  
“Hm…” Geralt muttered, finally coming up for air. “It doesn’t translate well, does it.”   
  
“Yes Geralt,” Yaevinn replied, leaning up on one arm to watch as Geralt stood to kick off his boots. “Perhaps if we could only talk dirty to each other a bit neater, dh’oine would leave the Aen Seidhe alone.” His own boots joined the witcher’s across the tent as the elf sat up further to remove the rest of his own clothing.   
  
“It’s not the worst idea you’ve had,” Geralt reasoned as he tossed his trousers and underwear away to join the growing pile. Yaevinn’s eyes dropped to the witcher’s half-hard cock and the thick white hair that surrounded it, and his breath hitched ever so slightly.   
  
“Thaesse y cáemm aép arse, sheyss.”   
  
“That one’s less friendly, I gather,” the witcher continued to tease, now kneeling back down above the elf. Yaevinn looked back up at him, one brow raised high in the beginnings of annoyance.   
  
“Or it’s very friendly,” he countered, his common speech almost accented with the elder tongue now. “Shut up and fuck me, dammit.”   
  
The witcher pressed the elf back down onto his back and lifted his hips slightly, removing the last of his clothes in one smooth movement. His lips twisted into a smile.   
  
“Yeá veloë, elaine Sidh,” Geralt hummed, sliding a hand between them to caress Yaevinn’s inner thigh with something bordering on reverence.   
  
“I thought you said--” the elf questioned with a shiver.   
  
“I lied,” the witcher replied simply, continuing to move his hand slowly. “I like your hasty translations.”   
  
“A d'yaebl aép arse,” Yaevinn muttered, but the witcher disregarded his annoyance and pulled him into a deep, searching kiss.   
  
The elf shuddered and pulled Geralt in closer with one hand on the scarred side of his face, and the other at the back of his head, tugging at his hair. Their lips moved together with more cooperation now, as tongue met tongue and quiet moans met with heavy sighs.   
  
“Have you got any oil or something we can use?” the witcher asked finally, pulling away just long enough to let Yaevinn retrieve his breath. “I’d offer some of mine but they’re all with Roach and nearly all of them would poison you.”   
  
Yaevinn nodded understanding and thought for a moment, the fingers on one hand continuing to card through the witcher’s thick hair while the other hand absently explored the scars on his back. The witcher nuzzled his cheek and kissed him at the corner of his narrow jaw.   
  
“There’s a bottle in the wooden box near your feet,” the elf offered, his low voice vibrating against Geralt’s lips as his kisses traveled down the elf’s slender neck.   
  
The witcher turned quickly and rummaged in the box while Yaevinn stretched languorously and shook an unruly lock of hair out of his face, a hand idly fondling himself while he waited. He hadn’t noticed it before - the warmth of the witcher’s body helping to insulate him - but Yaevinn’s nipples tensed quickly with the cold, reminding the elf of one of the many reasons he hated Temeria. Geralt turned back with a bottle in hand, shutting the box behind him, and froze.   
  
He watched Yaevinn’s fingers work himself lazily until the elf moved the hand away, and then glanced back up at him with hunger burning in his golden eyes for a moment before kneeling down and taking the elf in his mouth in one swift swallow. Yaevinn shuddered and stifled a moan.   
  
Slowly and carefully the witcher pulled back up off of him and ran his tongue from base to tip before taking his length once more, this time until his face was nuzzled against the smattering of delicate black hair that adorned the elf’s pupic bone. 

Thighs quivered around him and the elf grasped at his hair involuntarily as he groaned, throwing his head back. The witcher pressed deeper into the crook of Yaevinn’s legs, licking and sucking ever lower as he watched the beautiful contortions of the elf’s face.   
  
“Creasa thu aép arse, veloë,” he panted, unraveling quickly under Geralt’s ruthless attention.   
  
“Mmh…” the witcher replied, kissing him at the joining of his thighs and allowing his voice to rumble through the elf’s soft skin. “Then roll over.”   
  
Yaevinn did as he was told, and Geralt rearranged himself between the backs of the elf’s slender thighs. The stopper of the bottle of blade oil clattered to the floor and moments later Yaevinn heard the slick sounds of him readying himself. The elf turned his head irresistibly to watch as Geralt stiffened in his own hand, thick oil coating his length and glistening in the half-light that seeped into the tent.   
  
The witcher leaned in and kissed his open mouth with a chasteness contrary to the vulgar slide of his cock against the elf’s bare thigh and Yaevinn barely resisted a whimper. He tasted himself on Geralt’s breath as the witcher slipped his hands down between the elf’s cheeks and spread them.   
  
Yaevinn raised his hips to better the angle and tensed slightly in anticipation of the witcher’s girth. Geralt must have sensed his nervousness however, because he was gone from the elf’s mouth once more in a moment, and Yaevinn’d had hardly a chance to catch his breath before he felt the witcher’s tongue pressing gently against the pucker of his ass. 

The elf gasped and pulled away from the sudden sensation and Geralt sat up on his heels immediately, an almost embarrassed look on his face, but Yaevinn stopped him with a hand and bit his lip as he pulled him back.   
  
“N’vort, Gwynbleidd,” he insisted. “A'baeth me.”   
  
The witcher resisted a smirk and set the oil down before leaning back in to hold the elf close. He kissed Yaevinn’s cheeks, then his puckered entrance, and ran the flat of his tongue over it. The elf sighed and relaxed around him, allowing Geralt to press slowly inside with his wet tongue while he shivered and hummed.

The witcher licked up and around inside Yaevinn’s oppressively tight heat, alternating between fucking him open and kissing and sucking the surrounding area until the elf’s hole was dripping wet and trembling open. Yaevinn’s cock was beading drops of precome by the time the witcher finally moved his face back with one last flick of his talented tongue. Geralt saw this and smiled, but resisted the urge to slip a finger round in it. Instead he pulled back and grabbed the oil once more.   
  
“Yn veloë,” he beckoned. “Me creasa mire thu.”   
  
The elf obediently rolled onto his back, one brow raised slightly as he suppressed a smile.   
  
“Perhaps you should stick to the common tongue, Wolf,” he suggested. His voice was husky, but not yet improbably so. “It’s a bit endearing, but after all if I wanted that I’d fuck another elf.”   
  
“Right. And you’re here… to be fucked by a witcher,” Geralt concluded in a distant voice.   
  
“Just so,” the elf agreed. He pulled Geralt back down on top of him and wrapped his legs around him once more to pull him in close. “I’m here to be fucked by  _ The  _ witcher,” Yaevinn leaned up to meet the witcher’s chest with his lips and kissed a path from scar to puckered scar. “Geralt of Rivia. Gwynbleidd. The Butcher of Blaviken.”   
  
Geralt shook his head with half a smile, pressing irresistibly into the touch of the elf’s rough tongue and thin, shapely lips on his skin.   
  
“I hate to disappoint this late in the game, Yaevinn, but the story of Blaviken is little more than a myth,” the witcher said with a sigh, sliding a gentle hand through the hair at the back of the elf’s head.   
  
“Is it?” Yaevinn said without concern, preoccupied with the witcher’s hardening nipples. “I should have figured as much. The dh’oine will spread slander about anything that passes far enough over their heads.” He sounded like he wasn’t even listening to what he was saying. Like this was just an answer he provided to explain away most things. Geralt couldn’t fault that logic.   
  
The elf pulled himself up fully so he was now not only wrapped around the witcher’s sturdy waist, but sitting in his lap. He kissed the deep bite scars on the side of Geralt’s neck, and drew his lips through the day’s growth of white stubble on the witcher’s jaw. He slid a hand down the length of the witcher’s right arm to his hand, and deftly took the oil from him.   
  
Geralt allowed this, slipping his now free hand between them to wrap his fingers around the base of the elf’s cock and massage them slowly upward, bringing him back to full hardness. The elf groaned and bucked his hips involuntarily into the hand before slapping it away and distracting the witcher with a punishing kiss.   
  
Yaevinn licked deep into his mouth and bit his lips, only pressing deeper into the kiss when Geralt bit him back. The elf finally broke the kiss moments later to plant his free hand firmly on the witcher’s chest and push him down onto his back. Geralt acquiesced and watched with rapt attention as Yaevinn took this moment to slip a pair of slicked up fingers deep into himself and scissor them out, rolling his hips once, twice, before he slipped them back out and added a third.   
  
He leaned down over Geralt then, kissing his way back up to the witcher’s face with his appetizingly prepped and spread ass in the air, fingers still working inside. The witcher stopped his progress upward with a firm hand on his shoulder and groaned low in his throat as he watched.   
  
“You look exquisite, Yaevinn,” he muttered, loosening his hold on the elf’s shoulder to simply caress the stretching and moving muscles there as Yaevinn continued to work himself open. The elf moved up to the witcher’s ear and kissed the lobe of it softly.   
  
“Thank you, Wolf,” he breathed, warm and low against Geralt’s skin. The witcher shivered as Yaevinn straightened out and circled his slick fingers around the base of Geralt’s erection, giving it a few slow tugs in preparation. “Are you ready?” he muttered slowly, rubbing the flat of his thumb teasingly over the head of the witcher’s aching cock. “Mm do you still want this, witcher? It’s not too late to turn back.”   
  
Geralt could hear and feel the taunting smile in Yaevinn’s voice and against his ear. He huffed a disbelieving laugh and pushed up into the elf’s steady hand as he pulled Yaevinn’s head down to his lips to whisper against his pointed ear in a voice like heated gravel, “adan’le aen me kusse, Yaevinn. Aeuniade’me. Aen treise.”   
  
Despite his earlier complaint, the elf shivered at Geralt’s use of the elder speech and moaned against the witcher’s hot skin. He lined them up carefully, circling his hole with Geralt’s slick cock so they both shuddered, before he found the spot and slipped down over just the head with a gasp.   
  
The witcher grunted and curled his toes with the effort of not bucking up into Yaevinn’s intensely welcoming heat, and the elf rewarded him with a quick, wet kiss before he sat up fully above him, eyes locked, and slid slowly and carefully down onto the witcher’s aching length. Both of them were breathing hard, though for the witcher it was more an affectation than anything else. He could have spent an hour at this without ever losing his breath thanks to years of training and mutations.   
  
And then Yaevinn did what he’d been told. Rolling his hips carefully he began to dance on Geralt’s cock, up and down, gyrating, slow and teasing. Geralt groaned and slipped his hands around the elf’s waist and thigh, not applying any pressure but simply needing to hold onto something. Yaevinn’s mouth was parted in a continual sigh as he struggled to keep his burning gaze on the witcher through an overwhelming urge to throw his head back and close his eyes.   
  
“Exquisite,” Geralt muttered, watching him move.   
  
He stroked down the elf’s left thigh, hard with tensing muscle, and up his waist, lean and heaving, then drew a hand to Yaevinn’s straining and neglected cock, and caressed the head and the length of it. The elf shuddered and bit back a cry, tightening hard around the witcher so that Geralt saw stars.   
  
But after a moment Yaevinn continued to dance above and around him with tawdry skill, rising up to dizzying heights without ever once letting the witcher slip out of him and then sliding back down around him. Geralt let one hand slip further upward across the muscle and bone of the elf’s lithe chest, to his neck and his jaw and his pointed right ear. The elf turned his face into the thick fingers, rough with calluses and scars, and pressed parted lips against them, closing his eyes at last. The witcher watched breathlessly as Yaevinn licked at the nearest finger, and then moved to suck it fully into his mouth.   
  
Geralt couldn’t keep quiet at that, and the hand he’d had idly massaging the elf’s balls moved quickly up and squeezed his thigh, his fingers digging into the flesh he was nearly able to encircle with the fingers of one hand as he clutched desperately. Yaevinn hummed contentedly around the finger and turned his eyes on Geralt to watch as he brought a second finger in between his lips with half a smile.   
  
The witcher groaned and wrapped his arm fully around the elf’s waist, sitting up beneath him and stealing a kiss as he pulled his fingers away from Yaevinn’s mouth. Their lips clashed wetly, the witcher pressing deep and needily into him as the elf wrapped his legs tight around Geralt's hips in a struggle to keep the witcher inside of him.   
  
“Wolf,” the elf warned, kissing him back just as hungrily, his laden cock tangibly throbbing and hot trapped between them but Geralt's beginning to slip out of him even as they held each other close. The witcher moved an arm down and around to securely hold him close broke the kiss.   
  
“Steady yourself on me,” Geralt commanded, and Yaevinn’s arms encircled him before the witcher lifted them both as a unit.   
  
His cock never left the elf’s close heat, though it came close once or twice as Geralt pulled his legs up under himself and brought Yaevinn back down onto his lap so that now, at last, he could fuck into him properly. The elf groaned and clutched at his shoulders, moving around experimentally one more time before Geralt stilled him with firm hands and, their eyes locked in a tight gaze, lifted the elf above him slightly and pushed back into him hard.   
  
Yaevinn’s head fell back with a muttered cry. Geralt fucked out and back into him again, and the elf brought himself back in by a hand tangled into the witcher’s thick white locks, and leaned their foreheads against one another. Geralt set a searing pace, grunting under the strain of it as he fucked the elf with abandon, and Yaevinn pressed his lips hungrily to every part of the witcher he could reach in the hopes of disguising his near constant moans.   
  
The witcher slipped a hand through Yaevinn’s long, dark hair and pulled him back with just enough force to hurt, so that the elf was forced to look him in the eye. Yaevinn groaned and drank in the sight of Geralt near wrecked with lust, his golden irises pushed almost into nonexistence by his wide pupils which, the elf now noticed, were reflecting light like a cat’s. 

“Exquisite,” the elf murmured with a wry smile as he traced the long, irritated looking scar from the bottom of Geralt’s left eye with his thumb.

They leaned in slowly but their kiss was hectic and desperate as the witcher continued to pound up into Yaevinn hard and deep. The elf whimpered into Geralt’s open mouth and the witcher responded by pulling him closer. He laid them back down on the bed with Yaevinn underneath, and angled the elf’s narrow hips up so they still rested on the witcher’s thighs. Then he fucked back into him slow and deep.

Yaevinn let out a shaky groan as Geralt pushed with sweet purpose into that cluster of nerves, and searched wildly for something to cling to. The witcher provided a hand and their fingers quickly interlocked before the next thrust when Yaevinn cried out again and clenched his fist tight around the witcher’s. Where before he’d been pressing past the elf’s prostate temptingly, now he fucked into it with direct and passionate purpose.

Geralt’s rhythm stuttered and the elf could feel his balls tightening against his hot, punished skin. He quickly returned, however, to the pace from before - unsustainably fast and unbelievably good, especially now that the witcher was hitting the sweet spot with nearly every stroke.

“Essea aen aeánn,” Yaevinn breathed as his thighs trembled and his cock twitched threateningly between them. He hadn’t felt so full in years. He couldn’t remember  _ ever  _ needing to come so badly.

“Mmh,” Geralt concurred with a grunt. “I am too. Unh… go on then. Come for me, Yaevinn.” His voice was now hardly even there for all the bass in it. 

Their lips clashed for one last heated kiss as the witcher held Yaevinn’s hips up with both hands and fucked into him hard and deep and purposeful, one, two, three powerful strokes before he stuttered and came. Yaevinn was quick to follow, thick ropes shooting up his heaving, sweaty chest until he wondered if it’d ever stop, as Geralt groaned long and low above him and filled him with his seed, back arching as his eyes fluttered closed.

He slipped out of the elf’s red, raw hole and collapsed at his side on the mattress of reeds and neither spoke for several minutes, catching their breath and slowly but surely regaining their minds. The come on Yaevinn’s chest slowly dried into sticky rivulets, and when he moved he could feel it inside of him, threatening to leak onto his thighs if he made one wrong move.

The elf sighed and got up, shifting the bed slightly under Geralt as he stood. The witcher watched him sleepily from the bed, with eyes that missed nothing even in the dim light from the fading sun outside, and Yaevinn dipped a cloth into a basin of water in the corner and began to clean himself.

He watched Yaevinn tend first to his sweaty face and come-splattered chest, as Geralt’s seed leaked slowly down his perfect thighs. Outside, the witcher heard the first sounds worth noting since they’d entered the tent, notable in that they were close. Annoyingly so, and getting closer. The witcher groaned. 

Yaevinn, not yet hearing the footsteps, mistook the meaning of the witcher’s sound and turned around with a raised brow, moving the cloth away momentarily to give Geralt a better view. The witcher drank it in, but it wasn’t long before the elf heard the footsteps too.

“Is that--?” he muttered distastefully, returning the cloth to his thighs and buttocks but otherwise not bothering to cover or make himself decent even as it became quite clear that whoever it was was headed straight for them. He rolled his eyes. “Never a spare moment.”

The tent flap opened letting in a cold, feainnewedd-scented breeze, as Yaevinn finished cleaning most of the semen from himself and tossed the cloth down near the basin. An elf stood in the doorway, looking interested but not perturbed by the naked witcher in his commander’s bed.

“Cairbre?” Yaevinn prompted the elf, taking his attention off Geralt long enough for the witcher to cover himself slightly with a nearby blanket.

“Dinner has been served,” Cairbre provided. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but the rabbit will get cold if you don’t come soon,” he elaborated, glancing back over at the still very naked witcher.

“Thank you. We’ll be there soon,” Yaevinn nodded pointedly.

Cairbre smirked and obediently closed the flap.

“Don’t they give you any privacy?” the witcher asked as he listened carefully to the elf’s retreating footsteps.

“The dwarves do. They’re like dh’oine that way,” Yaevinn explained as he slipped on clean underthings and the clothes from the floor. “But with elves there’s no such thing. We have no need for it, I suppose. At least not usually.” He tossed Geralt a damp cloth for his own limited clean up, and slipped back into his armor.

“I’m going to go ahead, make sure it’s all clear out there,” the elf said distantly. “You may join us whenever you see fit. He’s a prick, but Cairbre does cook rabbit better than most, and I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite.” A hint of a smile reached Yaevinn’s eyes at that and he turned towards the door. “We’ll certainly need the strength if we’re to go another round tonight.”

With that he left the witcher to himself, closing the tent flap behind him and walking off with purpose. Geralt could hear the little limp in the elf’s step, and smirked.

**Author's Note:**

> My Elder Speech translations:
> 
> Yaevinn:  
> Aen’drean me, vatt’ghern. Veloë.  
> Enter me, witcher. With haste. 
> 
> Thaesse y cáemm aép arse, sheyss.  
> Shut up and come (“enter” come, not “cum” come) in my ass, dammit. 
> 
> Creasa thu aép arse, veloë.  
> I need you in my ass, now. 
> 
> N’vort, Gwynbleidd. A'baeth me.  
> Don’t go, White Wolf. Kiss me. 
> 
> Essea aen aeánn.  
> I’m on the edge.
> 
> Geralt:  
> Yn veloë. Me creasa mire thu.  
> (Turn) over now. I need to see you.
> 
> Addan’le aen me kusse, Yaevinn. Uniade’me. Aen treise.  
> Dance on my dick, Yaevinn. Join me. (Couldn't find a word for sex so "join me/unite with me" was the best I could come up with.) With strength.
> 
> Yaevinn also uses the phrase "A d'yaebl aép arse" at one point, but that's not mine that's canon. If you want a translation of that one google it. It ain't hard to find.
> 
> Also:  
> If you're here from my very specialised tumblr page then good on ya, but if you don't know what I'm on about but you got this far, please go maybe subscribe to thewitchersloneliestship and or send me an ask, because this ship really is too lonely.


End file.
